


The Blind Leading The Blind

by Athgalla



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Humor, Blood, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Memory Loss, Psychological Trauma, so much chaos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athgalla/pseuds/Athgalla
Summary: Subjected to constant torture by Bill following the revelation of his betrayal, Stanford is struggling to think straight enough to hatch a plan to stop him. At his wits' end and more desperate than ever, he seeks out Fiddleford's assistance once again in hopes of putting to rest the terrible memories of what Bill has done to him while possessed, and intends to take advantage of even a shred of a semblance of peace of mind to put an end to Bill's plans before it's too late.Meanwhile, on the run and hoping to lay low from Rico and his gang, Stanley finds a late breakfast at the Triple Digits Truckstop in Gravity Falls interrupted by a distraught wife in search of her missing husband - and his colleague, one Stanford Pines. Incredulous and thrilled at the chance to reunite with his brother and apprehensive about the news of his recent disappearance, he forges an unlikely alliance with Emma-May McGucket and her young son, Tate, as they seek to locate Fiddleford and Stanford or, at least unravel the mystery of their fatesA canon-divergence AU hatched up by myself and dizzy-oke on tumblr!
Relationships: Emma-May Dixon & Stan Pines, Emma-May Dixon & Tate McGucket, Emma-May Dixon & Tate McGucket & Stan Pines, Emma-May Dixon/Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket & "Blind" Ivan Wexler, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 25
Kudos: 42





	1. That'll Keep You Going For The Show

The wind whipped wet snow into Ford’s face, the sleet pelting against his skin and stinging his cheeks. Everything hurt more than he ever imagined it could. His knees almost buckled under the aching and stinging, his neck had a kink worse than anything he’d ever experienced, and he dreaded having to redo the dressings covering the burns on his hands. For a moment, he considered just quitting, wandering back down the road and veering off into the wintry woods to let the cold take him. At least then he could rest, but the rising guilt and fear wouldn’t let him. This was his mistake and he was determined to fix it, but first he needed to find a way to sort his mind out enough to focus and work. The instability of the past few weeks – or was it months? – he was unsure at this point just how much time had passed, and all he knew was pain, exhaustion, hunger, and the jitter of enough caffeine to kill most men twice his size. His toes burned every time his old wool socks rubbed against him in his boots.

It had taken significant effort to work up the nerve to do it, but he had caved and asked a question of the nice waitress, Susan, at the diner in hopes of information. Sure enough, as someone privy to most local gossip, she had an idea of where the one person he figured could help him might be.

“Oh, I didn’t realize he didn’t live with you!” she’d cooed happily, pouring out his third coffee of the morning, “I hope he isn’t sick or anything if you haven’t seen him lately. That flu has been going around, after all. Anyway, I could have sworn I saw him with that Ivan fellow who just moved in next to the Smiths the other day – you know, the folks who own Dusk To Dawn?”

Ford was painfully aware of how awkward a question it had been. Thankfully, this Susan gal didn’t seem to look too deeply into it (like most locals), and as another safety measure he took off before she had the chance to even think about barraging him with any prodding questions about it, his work, or anything else he deemed too personal, his own name included.

He’d considered reaching out to Stanley, but quickly dismissed the thought. Not only was his brother unlikely to want to see him, but worse, he wasn’t about to ruin Stan’s life in turn by dragging him into this extradimensional mess. Additionally, brawn would only get one so far in a struggle with an energy being and dream demon, anyway. He may have pushed himself to jump for it out of necessity, but Susan’s information proved to be correct when he caught a glimpse of Fiddleford’s car at the house she mentioned. And so, desperation brought him to a crumbling-concrete, sleet slicked doorstep outside a rundown little rental house.

A wash of guilt came over him, but he forced himself to be bold and brought his shaking, sore hand up to knock. The next minute dragged on and his heart raced, feeling as if it could leap up into his throat and choke him, and the sensation jerked him abruptly back into awareness of the pain encircling his throat and cropped up the memory of its origin for the umpteenth time that day, leaving him almost buckling under its weight. In waves it came, the ghost of the feeling of stinging, rough rope scraping and tightening around his neck and a body made a plaything, subjected to an endless slew of playfully morbid tests in which he was along for the ride as a helpless passenger.

He could hardly breathe from the rising panic when the door opened just a crack, the chain lock still in place. Nervous blue eyes shifted about before settling on him uneasily, “Yes?”

“Fiddleford!” Ford flung himself into the door, trying to shoulder his way in as a terrified, desperate sob escaped his lips, “I need your help.”

Fiddleford scrutinized him through the crack in the door, holding his weight against the flimsy thing with all he had, “Hold your horses! Wh-what’s this about? I already told you I quit!”

“And so do I!” Ford barked, “Please, listen to me. You’re the only person who can help me.”

As Fiddleford recalled, he’d received this song and dance before. He remained skeptical, “I heard it all before. Just go. I don’t w-want any part in that demonic nonsense you’re involved with!”

“I know, I know! You were right! I’m sorry! Fiddleford, look at me. Please. Please…”

Fiddleford took a moment to fully process the sight that Ford cut before him – a pathetic one, really. His clothes hung off him loosely, as if he’d lost three sizes or more. A once proud face was now gaunt and worn, and eyes that once sparked with fire and curiosity looked terrified and exhausted, one of them reddened and bloodshot with dried blood crusted into his long, dark lashes. The hand that he had gripped around the door was quivering and bound up in gauze. Just barely visible below the collar of a mismatched button-up was a reddened mark encircling his neck. Fiddleford swallowed hard and hesitantly unlatched the lock, ushering Ford inside and tracking him with the intensity of a hawk as he made his way to a chair in a corner of the little living room, clutching his coat protectively around himself “Alright, alright. Ivan’s out for a few hours, come on in. What happened to you?”

“Bill.” Ford grumbled, pushing his glasses up to wipe his sleeve against his eyes to clear away the tears and grit, “I’ve barely slept in weeks just trying to keep him at bay, but there’s only so much willpower and caffeine can do.”

“Y-your eye…”

“It’s been bleeding again.” Ford admitted, “It was his fault the first time you saw it, too. It’s worse now. It hurts terribly and I can barely see from it anymore. I have a lot to explain, I know, but I have something to ask of you. I need your memory gun.”

“But I-“

“I know you never destroyed it, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford relented sheepishly.

“And, please, hear me out, I’m so glad you didn’t. He’s… he’s been using me like a plaything ever since you left, he’s trying to turn me into his puppet. I realized you were right. I was wrong to mistrust you. I was wrong to believe him. I should have listened to you – you were right! You were right about everything, and I need to do something, I need to fix his before…before he does something worse. I’m afraid your concerns were all too accurate and I need to act quickly to stop him and his plans. The last thing I’ll do is let him use me as his key, but I…” Ford faltered, “Do you see this? He burnt my hands. He half hung me for fun, to put me in my place, and I- I’m kept awake by it in the worst possible way! I can hardly think anymore! Is this how you felt? Is this the fear you went through? This absolute _hell_?!”

Fiddleford opened his mouth to speak, but Ford barreled on, arms tucked up against himself defensively from where he now sat on the worn old chair, “I just want to get rid of the memories of what he did while possessing me, so that I can work effectively to stop him. I need to make sure he can’t use the portal, or me, or anyone else. We could dismantle the portal, or, or _something_. I mean, I can, I won’t make you help me. This is all my fault. It’s my responsibility, and I’ve done enough damage as is.”

“No,” Fiddleford murmured grimly, digging around in a set of drawers at a huge oak desk on the opposite wall, “I’m glad you came.” He produced the memory gun and began checking it over and fiddling with its settings as he turned to head back towards Ford, “Tell me precisely what you need to forget, and I’ll help you. We’ll stop Bill, and we’ll get your sanity back.”


	2. I Know You're Out There Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected breakfast interruption leads to an unexpected meeting, and even more unexpected connection - but it's a small world, isn't it?

“Excuse me,” 

Stan blinked at the sound of the soft drawl at his side and turned his attention from the pancakes he’d been tearing into, “Mh?” 

The source of the voice was a pretty young lady who had slipped onto the stool next to him at the sticky bar of the Triple Digits Truckstop diner. She was short, with wavy, dark brown hair that fell just above her shoulders and kind but tired and weary, worried hazel-green eyes, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” 

“Uhh…” Stan blinked again, ignoring the blush coming to his cheeks, “Sure, sweetheart, why not?” 

“Do you know a Fiddleford McGucket by chance? He came up here last July to work with Stanford Pines.” 

Stan felt the color drain from his face in a rush at the name, heart pounding like a ten ton hammer in his chest, “Er, no, can’t say I know ‘im, sorry. Just outta curiosity, what’s your business with him?” 

“He’s my husband. I haven’t heard from him in weeks, and I haven’t been able to get ahold of Stanford, either. At first I thought they may have gotten in trouble in the woods while doing that reckless field work and all they got into, but when I last tried to call the house it seems the line is dead. I’m ramblin’. My apologies.” 

“Ah,” Stan took a long sip of his coffee, trying to process this and willing his mind to slow down for just a second. The coffee was still far too hot and burnt his mouth like hellfire, and he found himself grateful for the distraction of physical pain, “I’m actually new to town, y’see. Not from around here, really.” 

“Heh, well neither am I.” Emma-May looked at him skeptically, trying to place her finger on the strange sense of familiarity to his face. She was tired and worried enough, though, and reasoned her mind was plenty prone to playing tricks on her at this point, “Well, I won’t trouble you any longer. It was nice to meet you. Emma-May McGucket, by the way, and this is my son, Tate. Maybe we’ll see you around.” 

“No, it’s alright,” Stan assured gruffly, “Uh...name’s...um. Uh…” he wracked his mind for how to proceed in this situation, debating whether it was more advantageous to give her an alias or cave and tell her the truth and beg her for any information about Stanford, assuming he heard her right. 

“Are you alright?” 

Stan pulled at the worn collar of his shirt, scrambling desperately for an out, “Aheh! Sorry, toots, I just lost my train of thought there, you’re so beautiful and all. Your husband’s a lucky man.” 

Emma-May didn’t look terribly impressed. Her son, shyly tucked behind her, still had not spoken a word. 

This was going downhill fast. Stan backpedaled, “Ah, nevermind that. Best of luck to ya.” 

Emma-May flashed him a tight-lipped smile, “Well, God bless you. Alright, Tater, let’s get goin’. We’ll try the house next. Excuse me, waitress? Can you tell me where Gopher Road is?” 

Stan felt his mind blur as he processed what just happened and stared blankly into his coffee, unsettled by his faint reflection in it. She  _ did  _ say Stanford Pines, right? He couldn’t have been hearing things, and how many Stanford Pineses were in the world, anyway? Much less ones that would end up in a distinctly weird town like this. It really seemed like perfectly suitable Ford habitat, even just on a first glance driving into the little hamlet, but on the other hand the odds of him and his brother winding up in the same podunk lumber town after over a decade apart had to be vanishingly slim. 

He realized he shouldn’t but got his hopes up, and with those hopes, fears. Emma-May had essentially said her husband was as good as  _ missing _ . That wasn’t a good sign, and even if she was just a worrywart hovering wife and found him in no time, if Stanford was with this Fiddle-whatever-his-name-was, and  _ if  _ Stan happened to run into him  _ by some wild chance _ , what were the odds anything about that meeting would be remotely peaceable or productive? It twisted a knot in his gut to come to grips with the fact that Ford never having tried to reach out to him spoke volumes. 

At least, he probably hadn’t tried. Admittedly, burning through fake identities and locations like it was going out of style probably wasn’t making him easy to track down, even for someone as bright as Ford. Hearing the bell on the door jingle snapped him to attention again. He turned to see Emma-May leaving, young son in tow, and after a moment of hesitation, a moment of mental debate, and a cursory glance to prove the waitstaff was distracted, he opted to pursue her. 

“Hey, hey, wait up!”

Emma-May paused just as she stepped off the walkway and into the parking lot, tightening her grip on her purse as she turned to Stanley. This was looking nothing short of shady all too rapidly. 

“I need to talk to you. How do you know Stanford Pines?” 

Emma-May cocked her head, keeping her distance and taking a cautious assessment of her surroundings as she stepped to shield Tate and pulled him close with her free hand, “I…” 

“You did say  _ Stanford Pines _ , right? Was he from Jersey?” 

A nervous rush gripped Emma-May, “Y-yes. Do you know him? Does that mean you know Fiddleford?! Why didn’t you-” 

“Look here, lady, let’s keep this hushed, alright? I have my reasons.” Stan shifted his gaze around nervously, “I don’t know your damn husband, but I do know Stanford. I don’t think I gave you my name, huh?” 

“No, you didn’t.” Emma-May stated flatly. 

“It’s Stanley. Stanley Pines. If that Stanford was a real know it all, looks like me, y’know, but with six fingers, that’s… I know him. That’s my brother. I haven’t seen him in a long time. If you help me find him, I’ll help you find your husband. Can we strike a deal?” 

Emma-May raised a quizzical eyebrow, “He never mentioned a brother aside from Shermie.” He was right, though, and it dawned on her that that’s what she couldn’t place - he really did look an awful lot like Stanford as far as she could remember, especially as far as the face and broad shoulders went. She couldn’t help but cautiously get her hopes up. 

“‘Course he didn’t.” Stan spat derisively, lighting up a cigarette and brow furrowed in annoyance, a faraway look fleeting through his tired brown eyes, “I wouldn’t mention me if I was him, either, but like it or not he’s got a twin and it’s me. Anyway, I’ll ask again, can we cut a deal?” 

Emma-May took a cautious step forward as Stan outstretched his hand to proffer it to her. Reluctantly, she took it. He had a firm handshake, his hands were warm and worn, and called to mind a memory of Fiddleford talking about meeting Ford’s father and the (rather intimidating) spiel he gave him about the importance of a good handshake. With a deep breath, she met his eyes with renewed determination, “Deal.” 

“Wonderful. I like your style. Fill me in, here, what’s the situation? We can take my car wherever we need to go.” 

“We can take mine just fine.” Emma-May asserted, not about to throw herself into more risk than she already was, “You can join us or follow behind, but I’m headed up to Stanford’s house to see if they’re okay up there. I’m hopin’ they were just out in the field and that maybe their phone line went down somehow, but…” she sighed heavily, “I don’t see why one of them wouldn’t have thought to use a payphone or call me from a neighbor’s.” 

“Yeah, I wonder the same thing.” Stan scoffed, following Emma-May and Tate to her car, “Where’s Stanford live?” 

“On Gopher Road, I guess.” 

“In a big cabin, with a lab!” Tate interjected, showing a moment of brief excitement before falling silent and stoic again. 

“Yeah, that’s what he said.” Emma-May concurred, “Out past the edge of town a ways, apparently. Alright, get in. We’ll head up there together and hopefully get two reunions in one, I suppose.” 

Stan grumbled an acknowledgement and slid into the cramped backseat at Emma-May’s gesturing, Tate scooting in next to him. Something about the kid seemed too wise and knowing for his own good, given the little mop-headed whelp couldn’t have been more than seven. Not even seconds in and this drive was uncomfortably awkward, and Stan was less than a fan of being chauffeured around by strangers. It set him on edge, even if it was some tiny little Southern lady in charge. She seemed like she could hold her own, and he really wasn’t gunning to confirm or deny that suspicion personally. 

The silence in the car was getting to him. Stan cleared his throat, "Heh, so I gotta ask, what became of Sixer, anyway? I always assumed he got like, twelve Ph. Ds or something." 

"Well, he did skip a Master's program-" 

"-figures-" 

"-and went right into a dual Ph.D-"

"-of course he did-" 

Emma-May couldn't stifle a small giggle, "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't laugh, but you're funny." 

Stan rubbed at his neck sheepishly. That also struck Emma-May as familiar, "Aheh, yeah, I guess I am sometimes." 

Another tense pause settled between them. Emma-May broke it this time. “So, how come you haven’t seen your brother in so long?” She inquired, taking a glance at Stan from the rearview mirror. 

“What’s it to ya?” Stan grumbled, crossing his arms defensively. 

“Just curious about it.” Emma-May retorted gently, “Not meanin’ to pry.” 

“Then don’t. I don’t need your life story, you don’t need mine. Let’s just get these dorks found.” 

Emma-May pursed her lips. She was in a bad enough state of mind without some jackass with a sour attitude making it worse, “You don’t have to come if you intend to be so rude, you know.” 

“Meh,” Stan brushed his bangs out of his face and folded his arms again, “Alright, alright.” 

_ This guy…  _ Emma-May furrowed her brow. Was this seriously Stanford’s brother? Sure, he looked the same, albeit far more disheveled, but his attitude was entirely different and manners much worse for wear than Ford’s. She drew a deep breath, trying to will herself to be patient. He probably had a lot on his mind, too - it looked like he’d been through the wringer and then some on top of whatever onslaught of emotions this little twist of fate probably brought him. She knew she sure was feeling thrown for a loop, at the very least, and if he could be useful in finding Fiddleford, she wasn’t going to toss out a helping hand in a strange place. 

Tate glanced over at Stan, studying him curiously and with an unnerving, piercing intensity despite his eyes being obscured by his tousled mouse-brown bangs. Stan shifted uncomfortably. 

“I like your hair.” He murmured, then turned to stare out the window thoughtfully. 

“Uh, thanks, kid.” Stan ran his hand through it self-consciously. 

A quick, half-second turn back, “You’re welcome.” 

Stan turned his attention out the window as well. The trees here felt so tall and left him feeling comparatively pathetic and miniscule, and the long shadows they cast were almost enough to drown in. Emma-May’s car squeaked and juttered against the uneven gravel as the road’s maintenance got increasingly lackluster. A drop into a sizable pothole had him smacking his head painfully into the window and sent water and slush spraying up against the windows. 

“Sorry! I didn’t slow down enough for that one,” Emma-May chirped, “Everyone good?” 

Tate nodded solemnly and Stan grunted an affirmative. Emma-May pumped the brakes, skidding on the melting ice and snow as she almost missed the pull-off for ‘618’. It didn’t help the address marker was smaller than was reasonable and the driveway itself was mostly obscured by snow. The trees felt like they were closing in on the road and it felt suffocating and dreamlike. A heavy feeling came over the car as they pulled up to the cabin. It looked nearly abandoned, with at least half the windows hastily boarded up and snow blown up against the door and covering the porch. At least a dozen variations of “No Trespassing” signs were scattered around the property along with oddly arranged barbed wire that seemed to have little rhyme or reason behind its placement. A handful of ice-coated yagi antennas sat near the house. 

Stan felt his stomach drop. “What the fuck is all this?” 

“I don’t know.” Emma-May murmured, quickly regretting bringing Tate along, “And watch the language.” 

Stan hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud and coughed nervously. 

“Well…” Emma-May continued, trying to hide the quiver in her voice as she unfastened her seatbelt, “I suppose…” 

That got to Stan. Drawing a deep breath and steeling himself, he stepped out of the car, shoes immediately soaked through by the freezing cold slush he broke through on the ground, “You stay here with the kid. I’ll check it out.” 

Emma-May was moving to get out, too, “No, I won’t have you goin’ alone. This is givin’ me the creeps…” 

“Which is exactly why I’m goin’. I’ll tell you if the coast is clear.” Shaking the jitters out of his arms, he pulled his worn old jacket around his shoulders and headed for the stairs, carefully taking each one and narrowly avoiding sliding on the ice. He knocked and waited. Emma-May and Tate watched from the car with bated breath. He knocked again. Waited. Nothing. 

Emma-May rolled the window down, “Stanley? Should I-” 

He ignored her and tried the handle before calling back, “It’s locked. That ain’t a problem for me, though. Please tell your kid not to pull this kinda shit - I mean, stuff, okay? Anyway, here goes!” he took a few steps back, checked his footing, and threw his weight into the door with his shoulder. Something seemed to give, but not all the way, and he repeated the motion even more forcefully, foot slipping on the slush and sending him careening into the door as it buckled inward. He grimaced, feeling the sting of splinters pricking into his cheek and upper arm. 

In a flash, Emma-May was up the stairs and on the porch with Tate close at her heels as he steadied himself and straightened up, “Stanley! Are you okay? Are you nuts?!” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. I just slipped is all. You head back to the car-” 

“No, we’re comin’ with. I can hold my own.” 

Stan shrugged, “You struck me as someone who could. Keep the kid close. I’ll go first.” he slid past the door, the wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. It was dark inside, but after a bit of fumbling his hands along the wall, he managed to flick the lightswitch, “Looks like he paid his electric bill recently enough, I guess. Heh. That’s good. Hey, Stanford! Fiddle-whatever!” 

“Fiddleford?” Emma-May called, half to correct him, “Fiddleford! Are you there?” 

Stan took a few cautious steps into the house, surveying his surroundings, “Jeez. Yep, this is probably Ford’s place, alright. Looks like somethin’ cooked up by some crazy horror movie scientist. What is half this stuff? Oh, holy shit, is that a T-Rex skull? He really was livin’ it up here. Hey, Sixer! I’m touching your stuff! It’s me, Stanley!” 

Still nothing. 

He turned to Emma-May and shrugged, forcing a smile that was betrayed by the obvious worry in his eyes, “Heheh, that’d get him for sure, you know. Well, anyway, that’s not great.” 

“Where do you think they went?” Emma-May whispered, eyes wide as she drank in the clutter all around the house. 

“Don’t look at me, how should I know? You talked to him a lot more recently than I did.” 

“Last I really saw of Stanford was over five years ago, so I’m not all that up-to-date either! Fiddleford hardly filled me in on what they were doing up here!” 

“Still better than me, I got a decade on you there.” Stan muttered, “Hey, kid, what’s that?” he sauntered over to where Tate had picked up a stack of papers. 

Tate was scrutinizing the pages intently, which were covered in a slew of complex calculations and formulas, many of them seemingly repeated over and over and over in increasingly harried and frantic handwriting. Emma-May came up to them to look as well, clasping her hand over her mouth. 

“Oh, hun…” she reached her hands out, “That’s your dad’s writing, isn’t it? Can you hand ‘em here, please?” 

Tate was reluctant, clutching them to his chest and not meeting her eyes. She opted not to press for now and kept looking around, ushering Tate to follow close at her side.

Stan tried to steel himself against his rapidly growing anxiety, sidling up close to Emma-May and dropping his voice as low as he could, “It looks like things didn’t end well here, right? That’s not just me?” 

“It ain’t just you. Looks like a tornado came through here.” 

“A cryptic one, at that…” he added, picking up another paper. Tate craned to get a look at it, but Stan tugged it quickly from his line of sight. It was undoubtedly Ford’s writing, and worse, dried blood was spattered across the page, obscuring some of the words.  _ HELP  _ and  _ HE’S WATCHING _ were clearly legible, though, and a chill ran through his spine. 

“Who is ‘he’?” Emma-May whispered urgently, hands drifting over Tate’s ears. 

Stan leaned in closer, continuing to scrutinize the page, “I don’t know. Who was all here? Just him and your husband, right?” 

“Far as I know, yes.” 

“Mh…” Stanley didn’t like the way this was panning out one bit. He folded up the paper and pocketed it, “Come on. Let’s keep looking.” 

They carried on exploring a few more rooms. Books, notebooks, and papers were strewn across the floor. Dusty shelves were cramped with oddities and curiosities aplenty. Every askew piece of art depicting a ship made the pit in Stanley’s gut heavier and heavier, colder and colder. More papers had bloodstains on them, as did the kitchen table, counters, and refrigerator. Fist-sized dents littered some portions of drywall. One small room was all but empty save for a cheap little bed and a stray banjo pick. Emma-May took it and turned it around and around in her fingers, lip quivering as she forced herself to maintain her composure for Tate’s sake. He’d hardly spoken, but balled his fist into her skirt tightly as he followed. 

Stan had a similar reaction upon pushing his way into a room behind an ornate door in a little hallway near the stairs. Stacks upon stacks of books took up a quarter or more of the floorspace, and he recognized an old portrait of their grandmother on the wall. There were a few small bloodstains on the worn green couch, and streaks of blood stood in stark contrast to the white of the bathroom sink adjacent to the room. He pulled the door shut as he stepped back into the room, not wanting Emma-May, or worse, Tate, to see what could have passed for a murder scene. He hesitated briefly as he surveyed the room again, but furrowed his brow in determination and began tearing through drawers, tossing aside confusing papers, a smattering of pens, a few pairs of custom six-fingered work gloves, a handful of various baubles, and clothes that confirmed Ford’s fashion sense had only gotten stuffier over the years. As he shifted the umpteenth knit sweater aside in one of the dressers, a small crinkle got his attention. He felt across the fabric, finding something odd and flat but pliable tucked into it. Digging through to figure out what it was, he produced a worn old photograph. 

His chest tightened as his eyes fell upon himself in the photo, next to Ford, arms slung around each other playfully, boxing gloves on, and their father glaring daggers into them from the background. He gnawed at his fingers. Now was absolutely not the time to get choked up.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Emma-May gently placed her hand on his shoulder. 

“Sweet Moses, lady, can you not surprise a guy like that?! You’re gonna give me a heart attack!” 

Emma-May pulled back abruptly with a squeak, eyes wide as saucers in equal surprise before she slackened again, “I’m sorry. Is that you and Stanford?” 

“Yeah, what of it?” he grunted. 

“You were just starin’ at that picture for an awful long time. It didn’t look like you were doin’ too well.” 

Stan sighed heavily and sauntered over the couch, dropping onto it and running his thumb over the picture. Emma-May cautiously sat next to him, pulling Tate up alongside her. He gawked wordlessly, but thoughtfully, around the room, seeming to carefully drink in every detail.

“Let’s take a second. Hold on.” Stan huffed, rifling through his jacket pocket for a lighter and his pack of cigarettes. “I really need a smoke.” He grimaced when he found only two remained, but pulled one out and lit it up, “I think you and the kid should head back out to the car. I’ll tell ya if I find anything useful.” 

She considered this. Tate tightened his arm around hers, giving her a determined pout. That said all she needed to know, “No, I think we need to help. I just don’t even know what to do. Do we call the police?” 

“They never helped anyone. Let’s hold off on that, ‘kay?” Stan shot her an intense look that invited no contest. 

She nodded once, not wanting to test a man twice her size in an already shady cabin in the middle of nowhere. She swallowed hard, stealing another look at the photo when Stan seemed to lose himself in thought over it again, “I know you asked me not to pry, but is that your dad in the back there?” 

“Mm.” Stan nodded once, doing his best not to invite any further conversation on the topic. 

It didn’t seem to stop her, “Fiddleford met him once. I apologize if it sounds rude, but he said he was...err, rather intimidating. Scary, even. He does look awful stern.” 

“That’s an understatement.” Stan muttered, taking a long drag off his cigarette. That cold knot wouldn’t leave his chest and only tightened its grip on him, “I’ve never told anyone before, but do you really want to know why me n’ Stanford haven’t talked in so long?” 

“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

Something about those words was oddly comforting. He cursed himself for lowering his guard for even a second, though, and shoved the thoughts away, “Maybe I’ll tell ya later, then. Let’s get a move on. I don’t wanna be hangin’ around this place.” 

She nodded and turned to Tate, “Alright, you ready, sugar?” 

He nodded once and got to his feet, “We’ll find him soon. Let’s go.” 

Stan couldn’t keep from giving them both an approving look, “He’s his own man already, huh? I like that.” 

“I noticed something.” Tate offered quietly as they continued through the rooms. 

“What is it?” Emma-May asked, pulling him back towards her as he started stepping out ahead of them, and let Stanley take the lead again. 

Tate bit his lip, seeming to consider how to phrase his observations, “There are an awful lot of triangles. And the triangles in the windows are where the boards are.” 

Stan snickered quietly.  _ Kid logic, huh?  _ He wasn’t necessarily incorrect, but it was an interesting thing to fixate on and sent a twinge of nostalgia tugging on his mind. It was nice to be innocent and curious and adventurous, where every little insignificant detail meant something big. 

Emma-May didn’t seem to take this as lightly, “You’re right, Tater. Wonder what that’s about? Must be Ford’s sense of style, I suppose.” 

“Dad likes circles and squares better.” 

“He does, now, does he?” 

“Yeah. He told me. When we talked about our favorite shapes. I like circles, too.” 

Stan snickered again. That was a little more precious than he wanted to admit. 

Tate shook off Emma’s arm and dashed ahead, leaving her flailing desperately for him, “Another thing!” 

“Tate, honey-!” 

He stopped on his heel at a large, vault-like door, “This door.” 

Stan blinked. This was more baffling, “Huh. That is a weird door, alright.” He followed Emma-May up to inspect it and tried to wrench it open with no luck. Emma-May looked around the edges for any hint of how to open it. 

“Here.” Tate scooted up in front of the adults, reaching up and smacking at a piece of the wall, “This part. The board’s wrong.” 

Emma-May and Stan exchanged a look and a shrug. 

Tate continued fidgeting with the odd piece of wood until it popped open, revealing a small keypad. He got up onto his toes to read the numbers, curiously punching in a few digits. Something heavy clanked within the door, and Stan tried to wrench it open again. It worked this time, swinging wide with a loud, metallic groan. Tate flashed a winning smile. 

Stan and Emma-May were incredulous, “Hun, how did you know how to open that?” 

“Dad made it so I guessed his favorite numbers.” 

Emma-May blinked, breaking into a melancholy smile, “Well, good job! Now… what on earth could they have put down  _ there _ ?” 

Stan followed her eyes to see the staircase that descended into yawning darkness below. Instinctively, his hand drifted to the knife in his pocket, “I’m not sure, but we’re about to find out.” 


	3. There's a Bad Moon on the Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan, Emma-May, and Tate make a few more discoveries in the basement, and they're not getting a good feeling about it.

Tate’s demeanor underwent a dramatic shift as soon as Stan took a step forward.

“Don’t!”

Stan paused and cast a look over his shoulder, doing his best to crack an easygoing grin, “What, now you’re scared, kiddo? You can stay up here if you’re afraid.”

Tate was conflicted if not completely at war with himself now. He squeezed his little hands around Emma-May’s tightly and jutted his chin out in a determined pout, “I’m not scared!”

“Scared or not, you should hang back.” Stan grunted, “But I’ve got a brother to find, so I’m going in.”

“I got my dad to find!”

“Sugar, please…” Emma-May sighed, also conflicted, “Stanley, I don’t know about this.”

Stan shrugged, “We ain’t any closer to an answer right now, so that means there’s more investigatin’ to do. You want your husband back or not?”

Emma-May took a deep breath, ignoring the way her heart was pounding the longer she looked through the doorway. Stan had already started heading down the stairs, calling out for Ford again.

Tate huffed a breath, too, mirroring his mother. He tugged urgently at her hand, “We gotta protect him.”

Emma-May wrestled with herself for another fleeting moment, cursed herself as inevitably the worst mother of the year, scooped Tate up into her arms despite his protests, and began following after Stanley. The wooden steps creaked underfoot and the dingy lighting only made the descent all the more foreboding. The stairs seemed to go on and on, finally opening up into what seemed to be a control room with tiled flooring and a thick window that looked out into yawning darkness. The only light came from the glow of a few blinking red and blue lights within the control room and another handful visible beyond the window. Stan fumbled for a lightswitch once again, finding the lighting in this room low, but cold and strangely hard on the eyes. He squared his shoulders, effectively boxing Emma-May and Tate in behind him on the stairs while he cautiously surveyed the little room and the complex control panel in front of him, the thing a maze of buttons, levers, switches, gauges, and monitors. A handful of pencils, pens, note scraps, and torn pages were scattered across a small desk and some of the mess had apparently spilled over onto the tiled floor. A polaroid of Ford and Fiddleford sat on the desk as well, a ring from a coffee mug cutting through the words “Happy New Year 1982!” written in Ford’s unmistakable script. They looked happy and excited, both clad in perhaps the worst Hawaiian shirts even Stan had ever had the misfortune to behold, arms thrown around each other and broad grins plastered on their faces, their glasses askew where their heads were pressed together.

Stan glanced up from the photo, startled by a bluish spark running in a ring somewhere beyond the window. He closed his fist around his knife and shuffled to the door that opened out into the dark space and flicked a switch next to it, a clunk signalling another light coming on to illuminate what turned out to be an enormous, rough hewn cavern with a massive metal contraption on the far end. Another faint, stuttering flash ran in a ring around the circular hole in the middle of the gargantuan triangle.

Stan rubbed at his chin, “Well, that’s menacing. What is it?”

Emma-May gawked up at the thing through the window, holding Tate closer against herself while he wriggled and craned to look, “I haven’t the foggiest idea… Fiddleford’s undertaken some impressive projects, but I’ve never seen something like this before. I recognize his work on some of the computers in here, though.”

A dark, foreboding feeling gripped them all the longer they looked at it. Tate took a shaky breath, barely keeping his composure between the dread and curiosity surging through him like a lightning storm.

“What did you say those dorks were working on up here again?” Stan asked.

Emma-May deflated, “I don’t… Fiddleford never told me in detail. He said it would change the world, though, and he and Stanford were on the edge of an exciting breakthrough. He said it was an ‘interdisciplinary project’, and I  _ do  _ know he and Stanford were out here catchin’ critters and such in the area, and he said Stanford needed his mechanical know-how for somethin’ but he wouldn’t tell me further.”

“That’s not sketchy at all, now, is it? He’s your husband and he wouldn’t even tell ya what he was doin’?!”

Emma-May furrowed her brow in annoyance, “Listen, here, I just respect his privacy is all! I trust him. He wouldn’t do anything stupid. They didn’t want anyone to take the idea from them, probably.”

Stan was about to rattle off another snarky quip when a couple torn pages tucked up farther on the desk caught his eye. He picked them up, only more baffled the longer he looked. Frantic scribbles and rough sketches of eyes covered the page and dried blood stained one of the corners. Harsh writing scrawled out  _ MY MUSE WAS A MONSTER. F WAS RIGHT.  _ He cocked an eyebrow as he studied it, sure to shield it from Emma-May, and more importantly, Tate.

“What’s that?”

“Just some of my brother’s writing.” He muttered and folded the pages, carefully sliding them into his pocket.

Emma-May felt Tate curl his fingers more tightly into her shirt before she could press further, “You alright, sweetheart?” 

Tate shook his head, “Mm-mm.”

“Are you gettin’ a bad feelin’?”

“Mm-hmm. We gotta go.”

Stan grumbled something under his breath, “You two head on out. I’ll be just a minute.”

Tate was urgent, clinging tightly to Emma-May now and, despite his messy bangs obscuring his eyes, fixed Stan in a decidedly piercing gaze, “No, you have to come, too. We need to leave.”

“Stanley, he’s right. I’m really gettin’ a terrible feeling down here, myself. There’s no sense in tempting fate.”

“Emma-May, something happened here! Isn’t that obvious?! What if they’re in here somewhere, and we haven’t even looked out by that huge whatchamacallit out there!”

“I know, but we’re in no state to continue on. We drove through the night to get up here, and somethin’ just feels  _ wrong _ . We really should go for now and plan for what to do next.”

“You think I don’t feel that either? It’s  _ suffocating _ down here!”

“So let’s  _ go. _ We’re no good to our boys dead, are we?!”

Tate hiccuped a sob, “We’re gonna die?”

“No, no, not today, honey.” Emma-May backpedaled, stroking his hair, “Stanley, we all agree here. Let’s get a move on.”

The dark weight in the room only seemed to press down on them more with each crawling second. It was indeed nothing short of suffocating and put Stan more on edge than he’d felt in a long time, and that said something. He was about to retort sharply, only to meet the pleading, terrified look in Emma-May’s eyes and shatter beneath it. He huffed a resigned sigh, “Okay. Fine. You’re right. Let’s go and make a plan. Besides, we’re no good if the kid starts screaming.”

“You watch it.”

The air was still tense when they all slid back into Emma-May’s car. Tate was even more still than normal, a few tears streaming down his freckled cheeks. A few soft, sharp breaths were all the warning he had before he cracked, breaking down into quiet sobs that wracked his little body. Stan froze, absolutely lost as to how to deal with this rapidly developing situation on top of everything else.

Stan looked at him uncomfortably, wringing his hands, “H-hey, kid, it’s… it’s okay. I mean, like, I get it, it’s not, but-“

This had the exact opposite of the intended effect and he only cried harder, catching Emma-May’s attention. She glanced at him from the rearview mirror, “Oh, sugar, it’s alright. It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!” Tate whimpered, “It’s not! Where are they?!”

Stan made pleading eye contact with Emma-May through the mirror.

Emma-May sighed, trying to keep her composure, “He’s never panicked like this before… well, never had reason to. Sugar, please, it’s going to be okay. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t say that. Do you trust me? There’s a lot of things that could have happened. They could have gotten stuck out in the field, or maybe they’re playing a prank on us.”

“Dad wouldn’t play a prank this mean!” Tate snapped back, “A monster probably got them!”

“Monsters ain’t real, Tater. It wouldn’t be that. Listen, okay, they… Like I said, they might just be out campin’ again, or catchin’ birds and stuff for research. Or maybe they drove out to Portland for parts for that contraption in the basement. Maybe, maybe they’re trying to find a way to power the town!”

Tate was unconvinced, “Then why was there  _ blood _ ? Why was everything a mess?”

Emma-May was wracking her mind for a way to make this even a sad semblance of something reassuring, “W-well, sugar, you know Stanford likes old fashioned ink. I saw ink stains in other colors on things, so he might have spilled some and it just looked like blood. And your daddy always said he was real messy in college, so they’re probably just treatin’ the place like a pigsty like old times. I’m sure Stan could agree! Right?”

Stan blinked and shrugged, “Uhh, yeah. Sixer did always have a lot of clutter around, and uh, me, too. Y’know. Guys are like that sometimes.”

“Not me.” Tate said flatly.

“Well, good on you, kid. Keep it up, I guess. Don’t be a slob like the rest of us. Girls like it better when you’re neat, anyway. And, hey, you know what else I heard in the few days since I got here?”

Tate cocked his head, sniffling, “What?”

Stan was also pushing his mind into overdrive, “Here in Gravity Falls, they  _ really  _ like Halloween. So they celebrate it like three times a year. Once in the summer, and then again in the winter. They could be decorating for that. Sixer always loved Halloween, it’s his favorite holiday and he always wanted to go all out, so I’m betting he’s hard at work prepping to be the uhh… Winterween king this year!”

“They did have a lot of fun for Summerween, they said,” Tate added, though he remained skeptical.

Stan blinked incredulously.  _ I was at least partly right? Holy shit.  _ He kept grasping for something to add, “Yeah! And, uh, I’m sure they’re hard at work on that project, so, yeah, they probably just ran out to Portland or are out in the woods or somethin’, so now we can surprise them when they get back and have a late Winterween party with them. Sound good? Anyway, look, I’m gonna tell you somethin’, kid. I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve been in a lot of scary situations. This ain’t peanuts. Now, isn’t your dad, like, real smart and strong and stuff?”

“Well, he’s smart…” Tate murmured, “And he used to be strong.”

_ Damn, this kid doesn’t hold any punches.  _ Stan snorted. Great. This Fiddleford guy was gonna be hopeless with Ford-

“Well, that Stanford is real strong, so he could hold his own if they got into any trouble. Last I heard he could probably take on a moose! Heheh,” Emma-May remarked, partially forcing the laugh in a last ditch effort to lighten the mood.

“Wait, he is? I mean, yeah, he is! So together they can handle any problems they have out here, be it, uhh, moose, or uhh… I don’t know. Bears? Sci-fi bears? Cyborg bigfoot? Whatever it is, they’ve got it. Besides, I know my brother. He’s a good guy. He’d make sure your dad’s okay, and I’m sure… I’m sure your dad would look out for him, too, huh?”

It seemed to work, and the smallest hint of a smile seemed to tug at Tate’s lips. He nodded once.

Stan grinned back at him, “Good, then that’s settled. Hey, Emma-May, you mind if we make a pitstop at a gas station or somethin’ real quick?”


	4. Throw your pride to to one side, it's the least you can do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has an interesting encounter at the Dusk 2 Dawn convenience store, gathers a valuable tidbit of information, and he and Emma work on developing a plan to find their dorks. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Ford and Fiddleford head back to the cabin to fully disable the portal, only to find they might have more trouble on their hands than they bargained for and scramble to hatch up a means of effectively protecting the town.

“Hey, isn’t that the mysterious scientist that lives in the woods?”

Stan stiffened in surprise, interrupted from his futile fishing for whatever crumpled bills he’d hopefully stuffed into his pockets, and locked eyes with a young woman who was approaching the counter. She was a pretty thing, with wavy brown hair tucked behind her ear and tucked into place with a whimsical cat pin.

“We hardly ever see you in town!” she added cheerfully as Stan faltered.

Another staff member, an elderly man and presumably the other cashier’s husband, swung back around the counter, “Oh, really? I’ve heard a lot of stories about that house! I always wondered what kind of shenanigans you get up to out there!”

Stan awkwardly rubbed at the back of his neck, “Haha, like what? B-but, I’m not-“

“All kinds of spooky lights and strange noises! What are you guys working on up there, anyway? I always wondered, too.” A young man chimed in, fixing the cap on his slushie.

The young woman with the cat pin spoke up again, “Yeah! Do you ever give tours?”

Stan shook his head, absentmindedly pulling his hood closer around his face, “No, no, I’m- I’m not a scientist. I’m new in town, just passin’ through.”

She cocked her head, “That can’t be. Don’t be so modest! I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you or your friend at the diner in awhile. I’m sure you’re working really hard, though!”

He shook his head again, “No, that ain’t me. I’m just some guy. I don’t know about any scientist here in town, but that’s, uh, that’s pretty neat. He must be my doppelganger or somethin’.”

“Well, I’ll be.” The woman laughed, adjusting her purse on her shoulder, “What a coincidence! Next time I see him I’ll have to tell him I met his twin! I guess he did have shorter hair last I remember… How fast does hair even grow? Oh, it’s been a couple weeks, at least…”

_ Ouch.  _ Stan winced, then blinked incredulously.  _ Two weeks?!  _ “Oh, well, uh, I’m sure he’ll be by soon and he’ll get a real kick out of that. Heh, I, I gotta go. I just came in for smokes is all.”

The woman seemed to accept this and chuckled to herself. The other handful of people who had perked up seemed to have lost interest by now, and Stan returned to rummaging through his pockets, managing to scrape up a few bills in shoddy condition and a couple quarters.

The old woman at the counter grinned at him as she counted it, “That really is a coincidence. I knew there was a gentleman doing research in the area, and I heard last year someone else came up to help, too, but I don’t think I’ve met them, yet. All you young folk are so busy all the time. Oh, you’re a few cents short, dear.”

“I know, I know-“ Stan blustered, checking the pockets of his worn old jeans, “Hold on, I might have the rest…”

The woman stopped him and reached over to gather up some spare change from the penny dish on the counter, “Don’t worry about it, it’s only a few cents. Stay warm out there! It’s been a weird winter, and I heard we’re supposed to get more snow in the next couple days.”

Stan gawked at her, nervously taking the pack of cigarettes and pocketing it. He tried to flash her as charismatic of a grin as he could, “Ah, uh, thanks. I like your style. ‘Preciate it.”

“It’s no trouble. Have a good day!”

Stan nodded to her and took off, the world feeling like it was splitting away from him at whatever seams tied to him to reality. He hurried back to Emma-May’s car and slid in, “H-hey-“

“What took so long?”

“Chatty locals.” He grumbled with an eyeroll, “But I got news. They know Ford and his pal. Well, a couple of ‘em do. They’re at least, well,  _ known _ around here.”

Emma-May perked up, trying her damndest to act casual lest Tate pick up on her actual urgency, “O-oh, really? Well, that’s good! Did anyone say when they’d seen them last?”

“Yeah, some gal did. She thought I was Stanford, heh! Then she realized hair probably ain’t gonna grow that fast in a couple weeks. Hah! She had me goin’ for a second. I think he’d the be last guy to end up with a mullet.”

Emma-May forced a small laugh, “Yeah, heh!”

Tate seemed to be deep in thought about something, “Hm, I want big sideburns like Ford’s.”

Stan let out a choked noise, something of a stunted cackle.

“Do you now, sugar? I bet it’d be a handsome look for you.”

Tate’s nose crinkled with a small, proud smile.

Emma-May continued on, “Well, how about we all get dinner and then we’ll let Stan get on with the rest of his night. Say, where in town are you stayin’?”

Stan froze, “Er, why do you ask?”

“Just wonderin’ so we can figure out the easiest spot to meet tomorrow. I mean, if that’s…if that’s what you were plannin’ on, too.”

The dejected shadow that came over her voice pulled at something in Stan’s chest. He forced a good-natured laugh, “Well, duh! We can meet wherever. I don’t care.”

Emma-May was mildly suspicious, but didn’t want to press and risk being rude, “Well, alright. We’re staying over at the Twin Bed Motel is all, so if you’re there, too, it’d-“

“-Yeah! I definitely am. Definitely.”

“Oh, really? What room? I wonder if we just missed you this morning when we checked in.”

_ Not good.  _ Stan cursed himself out mentally for wedging himself between a conversational rock and a hard place and found himself questioning if all this nonsense was making him lose his edge faster than he was comfortable with, “Well, I mean, I was there my first couple nights in town. I’m somewhere else tonight. It was gettin’ a little pricey, you know.”

“Stanley…”

He sighed roughly. The piercing look Emma-May gave him through the rearview mirror confirmed she saw right through him. The way she so easily ripped the truth from him by agonizing, painful force was unnerving, “I got my car…” he grumbled.

“Hm?”

“Don’t worry about it!”

“Hun, if you need somewhere to stay, you can stay with us.”

“I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity, I’m insistin’.”

Stan sighed again. On one hand, admitting need was one of the last things he cared to do. On the other, though, he wasn’t one to pass up a convenient situation, “Fine. You sure?”

Emma-May was quite sure this was exactly how people ended up on milk cartons, but something twisted the words out before she could second guess them, “Yes. Absolutely.”

The days were still quite short, it seemed, and darkness settled in quickly. The heating in the dingy hotel room left a lot to be desired, and the radiator clanked and struggled at intervals.

“Hey.”

Emma-May perked up, turning from where she was curled next to Tate, and slowly sat up to face Stan.

He stood at the side of her bed, hands stuffed in his pockets, draped in soft shadows, “Kid asleep yet?”

Emma-May nodded, “Yeah.”

“Come outside for a smoke with me, then?”

She hesitated, looking back over to where Tate was curled up tightly under a pile of cheap, old blankets, “I don’t know if I want to leave him here. It’s alright. He’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so we can talk.” At that, she slowly slid off the edge of the bed, checking once more to ensure she hadn’t roused Tate, and padded quietly around the room to sit on the far edge of the other bed. Her gaze fixed itself on the gap between the curtains, stuck on the way the warm glow of the streetlights played off the snow and slush outside. The mattress indented when Stan took his place next to her, their shoulders almost brushing.

Stan held his breath, debating where to begin, and opted to dive in, “Well, I’m warnin’ ya I don’t have much of a whisper voice,” he rasped gruffly, “Anyway, how’s about we make a plan. Let’s lay all our cards on the table. We know they were alright on New Year’s.”

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“You heard from ‘em after that, didn’t you? And I found a photo.” He slowly pulled the polaroid from his jacket pocket to show her. Without hesitation, she snapped it from his hands urgently, tears welling up in her eyes as she scanned over it.

“Oh, they look so happy…” she whispered, voice cracking.

Stan scoffed, trying not to feel bitter about it. That  _ could  _ have been him, “Yeah. Real buddy-buddy, I guess.”

“They were. They always got on so well. So, they look fine, here. I last heard from them myself in the middle of last month, maybe around the 15 th ? Fiddleford seemed real tense then, but I just figured it was stress from workin’ so much. He gets himself into a tizzy sometimes when he goes all in, and they’d been workin’ real hard on whatever it is for months at that point.”

“Ya think it’s that contraption downstairs?”

Emma-May shrugged defeatedly, running her thumb over the coffeestain on the photo, “Lord knows, but it’s as good an assumption to make as any. Did you find anythin’ else important? I was so focused on keepin’ track of Tate, I didn’t get much of a chance to poke around.”

Stan grunted, seeming to mentally hem and haw before caving and rifling through his pockets again to produce the folded pages he’d found in the control room and quietly handed them to her. Emma-May’s jaw dropped as she opened them and found the panicked scribblings, the countless eyes covering the page, the cryptic words, the drops of blood dried into the paper.

“That’s Sixer’s handwriting.” Stan murmured, “I don’t have a clue who F is, or who or what this ‘Muse’ is, though, but it’s pretty fucked up if you ask me. You know what? I’m just gonna lay all my thoughts out for you. My first thought was that your husband lost his marbles and killed my brother. I’m not as convinced of that now-“ he swallowed at the venomous look Emma-May shot him, “Sorry! Just coverin’ all our bases. Cabin fever and all that. But, I don’t know, did they get roped into some kinda cult shit? This seems like just the kind of creepy-weird town that’d happen in, though Sixer’s also the last person I’d expect to call for that kind of malarkey. Whatever. Without regaling you with the details, I’ve been around, and I’ve seen a lot of things I wish I hadn’t. And, uhh, with all that in mind, I’m stumped here.”

“Still, we know they were okay at least a month ago, or at least they were alive a month ago.” Emma-May sighed, struggling to keep her composure and prevent her mind from launching itself into a catastrophic spiral of bad to worse to worst possible scenarios for the umpteenth time that day.

“Yeah, but a month’s a long time, sunshine- h-hey, don’t cry. Cryin’ won’t fix it. We need to think. Alright, they were definitely  _ alive  _ at least a month ago, and probably about two weeks ago if that waitress lady’s word is anything to go by. We haven’t really done much investigatin’ yet. Somethin’ definitely went down in that house, but you’d think if two guys doin’ somethin’ interesting went totally missing or got murdered, we’d get that information pretty easy. Has anyone you’ve talked to since you got to town mentioned anything like that?”

Emma-May shook her head, “No, but I also haven’t talked to many people yet. I met one person who said they’ve seen Fiddleford at the hardware store before, but that’s it.”

Stan straightened up slightly, “And I’ve been here about three days now and haven’t heard a whisper about any exciting murder mysteries happening around here lately. Knowing the way small towns are, everyone would be yappin’ away about it nonstop if that had happened.”

Emma-May’s lip quivered, but she nodded in agreement, folding her hands tightly in her lap. Without thinking, Stan awkwardly snaked an arm around her and pulled her close, failing to stifle the shaky breath that wracked him.

“We’re gonna find them, okay? I promise.”

Emma-May nodded again, taking a moment to compose herself, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, I know. You’re right, though. We need to focus and make a plan or else we’re just wasting our time.”

“Then let’s get the rest of our cards on the table. You said your husband likes hangin’ around the hardware store?”

“He definitely would.”

Stan grunted an acknowledgement, now awkwardly separating from her, “Okay, good start. Where else might he hang around?”

Emma-May pondered this, “If there’s a music shop in town, no doubt he’s in there a lot. Wouldn’t be a surprise if he frequented the library and museum, too.”

“Ah, yeah, startin’ to see why he and Sixer would get along, then. Stanford’d probably be living at the library and museum if he could. I saw somethin’ about a lake around here…he’d uh…” he looked down, twiddling his thumbs uncomfortably, “Yeah. I don’t know. He might spend some time there. He liked water.”

Emma-May agreed, “He did. Fiddleford said he drew sailboats in the margins of his notes all the time.”

Stan tensed, “He did?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I mean, yeah, o-of course he did.” It took a concerted effort to mask all the hope and heartbreak that little revelation brought crashing down upon him in one fell swoop, “Anyway, let’s focus, here. Hardware store, music store, library, museum, maybe the lake…”

Emma-May piped up again, “If there’s some kinda game store in town, that’d be on the docket. Lord knows how much those two have spent on Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons rulebooks by now.”

Stan huffed a melancholy sigh, “More dork stuff, huh? I don’t know what else I expected. Let’s see, what else…”

“Alright, we need to take stock of what all of our biggest risk points are.” Ford stated matter of factly, trying to hide the way he nearly instinctively cringed as soon as the cabin came into view through the trees.

“It’s a good startin’ place.” Fiddleford agreed, hanging back a little bit from Ford and twisting his hands around the fabric in his pockets.

“Wait-“ Ford threw his arm out as they drew closer, “Something’s not right. The door looks damaged. You did bring a weapon, right? I have my knife and magnet gun.”

“I have a wrench, at least…” Fiddleford murmured, trying to hide his growing worry.  _ And the memory gun.  _ “Come on, this is serious and we can’t waste time. Let’s just proceed with caution.”

Something about watching Fiddleford push courageously on ahead sent a pang of guilt shooting through Ford. Now wasn’t the time to get sentimental, though. Bracing himself, he cautiously made his way up the porch stairs, the remaining patches of half-melted snow squelching under his boots. He pushed his way into the house, turning briefly to shush Fiddleford, just as a matter of caution and principle. Fiddleford nodded in acknowledgement and let Ford go first, trailing him at a slight distance once again and sharply alert, constantly swiveling his head to scan their surroundings. Ford was doing much the same. So far, few things looked to be disturbed beyond what Ford knew was already left a mess on his own or Bill’s accounts. He questioned whether he’d broken the door and simply forgotten about it in his exhaustion, or whether the memory had been collateral damage from the memory gun. Either option seemed plausible, but neither was comfortable to accept.

Ford headed for his own room first with the intent to pick up some tools and a few notebooks, but froze when he saw one of his dresser drawers ajar. He hurried over to investigate, boots clunking on the hardwood, and found it looked as if some of his shirts had merely been pushed around. Someone must have been looking for something, and the thought unnerved him. Again, he forced himself to acknowledge it may have been his own doing and he simply had not committed it to memory in his recent haze, or that Fiddleford’s creation was less precise than he claimed it to be.

He kept searching, just to be safe. His stomach dropped. Something was missing – a photo.

The color drained from his face. Stanley was in the photo he’d kept stashed in the folds of a rarely-worn sweater, a place he felt he could ignore it when he needed to. Another thought struck a bolt of dread through him – what if Bill had possessed someone else, and what if this was his way of saying he was finding a way to seek out Stanley next, wherever he was? To Ford’s knowledge, Bill’s scope of influence was limited, at least for now, but he was also a liar. He huffed, running his hand through his hair, picked up what he came for, and headed for the basement only to find the vault door unlocked and unsecured. In an instant, his heart was hammering in his chest as panic sunk its icy claws into him.

“Fiddleford, this isn’t good.” He growled, “Either someone got in, or I foolishly left it unlocked, which means someone or some _ thing  _ could have made it down to the basement. We need to move quickly, and be careful. We need to assess the damage or prepare to stop an immediate disaster. Do you hear any of our generators running?”

“N-no, I don’t,” Fiddleford assured, barely able to squeak the words out.

Ford drew a tense breath, “That’s a good sign…I think. Come, come.”

As they made their way into the control room by the light of a flashlight Fiddleford had offered to Ford, everything was still and silent. It left a dreadful feeling in Ford’s gut to be in here again and he cautiously flicked the lights on. Fiddleford stepped past him to turn on the next set of lights and investigate the portal itself, though it was clear he was shaking.

Ford watched him in equal parts fear and admiration, eyes scanning their surroundings, but all seemed to be still with no signs of life. A spark ran around the rim of the portal and he saw Fiddleford immediately freeze up like a deer in headlights.

When Fiddleford didn’t continue moving, Ford slipped his hand down to hover over his knife and cautiously made his way through the door and over to check on him, soft steps echoing quietly around the rough-hewn cavern.

“Fiddleford?” Ford ventured softly, coming up alongside Fiddleford, “Is everything okay?”

Fiddleford shook his head roughly, letting out a spill of nervous, babbling nonsense. With a quivering hand he motioned to where the memory gun was clipped at his belt, flicked his gaze to it and back to Ford pleadingly, and managed to choke out, “Get rid of it. Please.”

“The gun?” Ford quirked an eyebrow.

“ _ No!  _ The- the- y’know!” Fiddleford faltered and fumbled for words again, but nothing intelligible came of it. He hissed and snarled to himself, tearing at his hair with one hand and scrabbling at the memory gun with the other. He struggled to adjust the dials and his hands seemed to shake more and more as he fussed with it. Ford watched him in careful concern, but meeting the absolute terror in his bright blue eyes sent an agonizing arrow through him.

He remained stock still, riveted in place, while Fiddleford turned the gun on himself. Fiddleford grit his teeth and huffed a rough breath as he took the blast, blinked rapidly, and took another deep breath, “It’s better for now.” He muttered, “For now. For now. Let’s work quick.”

“Fi-“ Ford’s words crumbled and he wanted to smash his head into the stone of the walls with all the rage and regret that came flooding through him as he looked at the portal, considered the helpless panic in Fiddleford’s eyes, the flood of memories that had shattered his reality and the godawful way Bill had sneered at him when he brought the last shreds of a daydream crashing down around him.

The sense of tightening on his throat came back, of sharpness and pain on his skin and the agonizing sensation of his mind being toyed with. He curled his fingers to motion Fiddleford to hand the memory gun over, adjusted the dials, drew a deep and steady breath, and wordlessly turned it on himself in turn.

That was the second time he experienced its relief, an instant wash of blissful numbness that felt fuzzy in his head. Whatever had been bothering him was left with a welcome blank space bracketed by knowing he’d followed Fiddleford out to the portal and standing here right now. Fiddleford was already setting to work disconnecting the fuel lines. Ford joined him quickly.

“Did you get the hyperdrive disconnected?”

“No,” Fiddleford replied flatly, checking a few gauges and switches, “But I was going to start disconnecting some relays and that mercury arc rectifier.”

“Good. I’ll head over and disable and remove the hyperdrive, then.” Ford stated, “I just need to grab a few tools. Holler if you need anything.”

“Understood. I also wanna take out the tape reels in the control room. We don’t want to leave any of the computer’s memory.”

A couple hours later, Ford rejoined Fiddleford, “All of that’s said and done.”

“Finally.” Fiddleford agreed, “Now we can safely disassemble the portal itself.”

Ford quirked an eyebrow, “…disassemble?”

Fiddleford met his eyes, “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Who said anything about disassembling it entirely?”

“Stanferd.” Fiddleford grit his teeth and furrowed his brow, “I don’t see any other way we can fully ensure everything is safe.”

Ford began pacing, pressing his fingertips to his forehead, “Are you that short-sighted? After all the effort we put in, and still just want to throw it away? I’m not giving in that fast. We can disable it for now, hide the hyperdrive and tape reels and a few other parts for good measure, and that will buy us time. There ought to be a way we could modify it and use it the way we planned, the way I  _ thought  _ we’d use it.”

“It’s…  _ possible,  _ but it would take a lot of work and redesigning a fair chunk of it at the very least. And that’s still an  _ if _ .” Fiddleford mumbled, unnerved, “I think it’d be fascinatin’ just as much as you, but this ain’t a time to take even the slightest risks.”

“You’re right. You’re right. But let’s not be hasty and throw away all of our work.”

“Fine. Whatever option we pick, though, we need to proceed carefully.”

Ford made a face out of Fiddleford’s sight, “Yes, yes, I agree, b-“

“Ford, let’s get to work. We’ll worry about our personal discrepancies later.”

Ford set his jaw, sighing an unspoken  _ “Very well.”,  _ “We got the hyperdrive and tape reels. We could also get the fuel itself out of here and remove that rectifier, too. Without all of that, the portal should be unusable and we won’t damage anything, and none of that is going to be easy to replace. Just to be safe, maybe we should remove the quantum flux regulator?”

“If we hide that, we need to keep that far away from wherever we hide the hyperdrive. But that’s a good idea. It’ll definitely be useless without both of those. Maybe we could secure the reels in the bunker? What do you think?”

“Brilliant! That or just some minor components could be brought there, but let’s not do that with anything too critical as Bill does know about the bunker’s existence. I’ve already stashed some supplies down there should things go…well, less than smoothly. But I’m still ill at ease.”

“Me, too.”

“Mm…especially considering someone else was quite likely here. Even if it was just rambunctious local teens, I worry greatly. He’d take advantage of anyone and anything in any way he could, and it isn’t as if this town is the brightest. What if we reach a worst case scenario, and somebody finds my journals? Or worse, the place I sealed my own fate with Bill? If someone else summons him, it would be disastrous.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, “Wait, where is that?”

Ford shot him a hesitant look, “Er- I think it’s best if the fewest people possible are aware of that. None of us is safe.”

“You don’t trust me?”

Ford’s expression darkened, “I hate to say it, but I cannot, not completely at least. It’s for our own safety.”

“Right…” Fiddleford murmured, “It makes sense. But you’re worried about the rest of the town?”

“Yes.”  _ And more than that, Stanley.  _ “I can bear it if he toys with me. I can bear his torture. You’ve provided me a great medicine for that, though I’m unsure if it’s better in the long run to learn and try to grow numb to it or to forget and risk experiencing everything anew. Time will tell, I suppose, but this is helpful for the time being. However, others may not be so strong. I don’t want anyone else to be hurt by him, or worse, turned into his pawn like we were. We need to take all precautions to prevent that. At first, I considered making a public warning…”

Fiddleford nodded solemnly, clearly already agreeing that mode of thinking was insufficient at best and potentially catastrophic at worst.

“But I fear that would only make everyone weaker to him at worst, and at best, I’d be a laughingstock. I’m not particularly willing to deal with either of those outcomes. Too many people think they can play with fire. We need to protect everyone’s minds, but how?”

Fiddleford made a vague gesture to the memory gun, “If anyone indicates they have knowledge of Bill, we could use this for emergency measures. We could even organize our efforts to do that.”  _ And we already have. _

Ford nodded along, grunting his acknowledgement, “It’s not exactly what I’d like to see, but if it works and keeps our world safe for now, so be it. We need to consider further preventative measures as well, ideally a way to keep him from getting into our minds. If it works for us, perhaps we could extend it to the entire town. A way to make it so he can’t access thoughts, even if someone has interacted with him…. Fiddleford?”

“Yes?”

“Do you believe it would be possible to potentially encrypt thoughts?”

Fiddleford paused, “It’s feasible, I reckon, but I’d need to work on it.”

“As would I, but let’s pursue this further.”

“It sounds like a good idea in theory, but how would we get folks to willingly subject themselves to that if they don’t know about Bill?”

Ford grimaced, “We either need a tried and true conman to help us- which we don’t have- or we could…” he paused, weighing his words, “Once again, perhaps your memory gun would prove valuable. We could keep everyone safe and none the wiser.”


End file.
